


at the bottom of the lake

by courageous_boss



Category: Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Family Fluff, Gen, Green Kryptonite, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kryptonite, Poison, Vomiting, Whump, Young Clark Kent, kryptonite poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26393839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courageous_boss/pseuds/courageous_boss
Summary: Clark is dumped in a kryptonite-infested lake by some older children.
Relationships: Clark Kent & Jonathan Kent, Clark Kent & Jonathan Kent & Martha Kent, Clark Kent & Martha Kent, Jonathan "Pa" Kent/Martha Kent
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	at the bottom of the lake

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this for whumptober2020, prompt #22, poisoned
> 
> i couldn't leave it in my drafts anymore, so enjoy!
> 
> credit title to (yet another) one of richard siken's poems. i used [this one](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/), but i changed the words to fit.

“Ma,” Clark whines, scrubbing at his wet cheek.

Jonathan shoots Martha a serious look, crouching to pull Clark close to him. Clark, ten-years-old and completely awestricken by his father, goes easily into his embrace.

“Come son, let me get that,” Jonathan grabs for a napkin, using it to wipe away the smear of Martha’s lipstick on Clark’s cheek.

Clark leans against Jonathan’s chest when he’s done, eying his mom with a look that says: _I’m with dad now—I’m safe._

And Martha’s heart clenches.

She’d only wanted him to go with the other children to play. It’s summer, and the weather is good, and Clark’s been cooped up all week.

Clark’s not supposed to be fighting her on this. He’s supposed to be racing out of the house, tripping over his feet in excitement.

But he’s not.

He’s scared and hesitant and it’s all because of the cruelty of some of the older children.

“Why don’t I go with you?” Jonathan suggests, pushing Clark’s hair up and out of his face.

Clark bites his lip, peering at him mom for permission. Martha nods, encouraging.

Clark stares at her, the blue of his eyes as fierce as it's ever been. she holds up to it, refusing to give him a chance to hesitate. 

After a beat, Clark relents, finally smiling as he says shyly, “Only if you’re not busy.” 

His smile is a tiny, ghost of a smile, but it’s the prettiest thing Martha’s ever seen.

She fills them a thermos of water, and Jonathan gets Clark’s nice sneakers on, and the two of them set off across the field.

Martha stands in the doorway, watching their backs, swallowed by disbelief that this slice of heaven could really be all hers.

* * *

Jonathan spots a group of kids at the edge of the forest, and Clark’s tiny hand slips into his. His son’s face is turned down and anxious, and Jonathan hates it.

Clark’s supposed to be _happy_.

“You’re not going to leave, right dad?” Clark asks, squeezing his dad’s fingers tightly.

Jonathan wants to grab him and run. Take him far away from anyone who could hurt him. But, behind the fear and worry in Clark’s eyes, Jonathan sees hope. His son _wants_ to make friends. He _wants_ to go off and play.

And, well, isn’t it his father’s job to help him get there?

“Not unless you ask me to,” Jonathan says, decidedly.

Clark fiercens his face and nods, and Jonathan knows he's done the right thing. 

Once they’re close enough, one of the older boys calls out, “Afternoon, Mister Kent.”

“Good afternoon, children,” Jonathan says, which triggers a chorus of polite greetings.

There are six kids in all, four of them looking about two or three years older than Clark. The other two must be their younger siblings, and they seem to recognize Clark.

“What are you all up to?” Jonathan asks.

One older boy speaks up, “We were going to walk to the lake. It’s hot enough for a swim.”

The other kids nod along, and Jonathan notices the other older kids, two girls and a boy, are holding towels. The younger kids, a boy and a girl, are beaming with excitement.

“Mind if Clark and I join you?” Jonathan asks.

The kids don’t object, and Jonathan holds Clark’s hand as they walk. Clark’s quiet, shy and tucked against Jonathan’s side. The other kids don’t make much of an effort to reach out to him, but Jonathan thinks that it’s enough for them to see that Clark’s here and willing to play.

Maybe now that they know he’s interested, they’ll reach out more.

Then, someone steps in a puddle of sticky mud, mixed with sap from a leaking tree. Clark, who’s recently been pouring through any and all literature Martha brings him on plant life, rattles off some awesome-sounding fact.

The other kids are taken by it, and soon Jonathan’s hand is empty.

Clark’s swept up by the other children, relating his knowledge as they marvel over it.

Jonathan hangs back a bit, giving them some space.

All he thinks is that maybe, the kids are alright.

* * *

Clark watches his dad disappear in the foliage, his steps purposefully slow.

He hasn’t told his mom or dad about the bullies.

(They know. He knows they know. His teacher had called them in, all concerned.

_Clark’s not making friends._

_The other kids don’t play with him._

_He’s—strange._

Clark knows he’s different. But he’s also the same. He’s a kid. Just like everyone else in his class.

Isn’t that more important than where he’d come from?)

He doesn’t tell his mom about the older boys who push him around, and he doesn’t tell his dad about the two girls who always steal his snacks.

He can't tell them.

There’s nothing they can do, anyway.

Clark’s strong. He’s stronger than everyone—even his dad—and that means that he has to be careful. He can't push back, and he can't defend himself. He can't do anything.

Except, maybe, now, he can make some friends.

“Ew, look,” a girl, Sarah, squeals, pointing at a lizard.

Everyone gathers around to stare, and the lizard makes a loud clicking sound.

“You know, their tails come off if they get caught,” Clark says. “It helps them survive.”

One of the older boys takes that as permission to grab at the lizard.

“Hey! No!” Clark shoves him away, placing himself in his path.

His face is heating up and his heart's racing in his chest. 

He’s furious.

This here is the lizard’s home. This is where the lizard’s supposed to be safe. And, if they treated the lizard kindly, it would sit on the tree and let them watch. Clark knows that. _Everyone knows that._

The boy growls, reaching above Clark’s head. He shoves Clark aside as he does, whooping obnoxiously. 

“Aha! I got it,” he says, grinning like a cat.

Clark watches, horrified, as the poor lizard wriggles about, crying out in panic.

“Put him down!” Clark pleads, cupping his hands under the lizard’s dangling body.

A second later, the lizard drops down into his hands, and Clark hurries to place the lizard on the ground. He watches it scurry off, still chirping its panicked cry.

Behind him, the boy’s left holding the lizard’s detached tail. The tail twitches a bit, and the boy jumps, flinging it away.

It lands in one of the girl’s hair and she screams, tears springing to her eyes as she tries to get it out.

Clark’s not having fun anymore, and he looks back, waiting for his dad to come to get him.

He wants to go looking for the lizard; he wants to make sure it’s safe.

But his dad has fallen too far behind, and the group is moving forward again. So, Clark says a silent apology to the lizard and trails behind them.

* * *

The lake is pretty with cool water lapping against the shore.

Clark knows how to swim but he isn’t allowed in the water unsupervised, so he hunkers down on a huge rock and watches the others tiptoe in.

The girl who’d had the lizard tail thrown at her sits beside him, and Clark scoots over to give her space.

“Are you going in the water?” she asks.

“Um, maybe. I need to ask my dad first,” Clark says.

She frowns at him silently, and Clark looks down at his shoes. They're his new, fancy ones. He wiggles his toes about, testing the stretchiness. 

“Is it true that you live in a barn?” the girl asks, perking up.

She’s not trying to tease him, but Clark feels hurt still. There'd been a day when someone had stuck some hay in his lunchbox and told him to moo. 

“No. I have a home. And, um, a bedroom,” he says.

He doesn’t mention his loft in the barn, which is very own space. (Just because he sometimes sleeps there doesn't make it his bedroom.)

She doesn’t look like she believes him, and her lips turn down.

“I’m sorry,” she says, then.

“What? About the lizard?”

Her nose scrunches, “No. Ethan’s going to dunk you in the water.”

Clark’s confused for a short moment, and by the time he’s processed what she’d said, there are strong hands digging under his arms. Suddenly, he's being lifted and dragged towards the lake.

He screams—for his dad, he thinks. Scared of what’s happening, hurt by the fingers rough against him.

He feels pinned down and helpless. He hates it.

“Let me go!” he hollers, thrashing about.

He hears someone wince, and the grip on his arm falters a bit.

Clark goes still, heart thundering in his ears. He knows he's harmed someone accidentally, and his stomach churns with guilt. 

Then, they’re dragging him again. This time, Clark doesn’t protest. He can't risk hurting them—can't risk exposing his secret.

As they near the water, Clark feels nauseous. He can hear the water lapping and the low sizzle of the sun and bugs. His skin crawls and his stomach whirls.

The water hits him like a slap of cold, and Clark feels like he’s bruising. He tries to swim, but his legs scrape against the bottom of the lake, and pain slices through him. His skin tears and bleeds, but Clark can’t find his voice to scream.

It’s agonizing—whatever it is that he’s cut himself on.

It’s probably poisonous, and it makes him numb and unable to move.

He hears laughing and splashing, and Clark feels water entering his mouth.

He goes sinking down in the shallow water, seeing glowing green rocks. They’re fascinatingly eerie, these rocks. They’d been left behind after the Kansas Meteor Strike. They’ve been all around him since he’s been living in Smallville, but this is the closest he’s ever been to them.

He gets the feeling that no one should be this close to the rocks. They’re making his blood burn, and Clark sees his veins rising and twisting under his skin.

This pain—this sickly, bone-deep pain—is unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

There’s water in his stomach now and Clark feels his vision going dark. He’s spluttered to the surface a few times, so he’s not starved for oxygen. And the water’s shallow enough that if he needed air, all he needed to do was stand. But he feels so weak. He can't imagine ever making his muscles move again. He can barely manage the effort to keep his thoughts running.

He’s tired and shaking and _scared_.

And, he realizes, he feels like the little lizard.

The poor creature he’d set up to be harmed. He should have never told that boy about the lizard’s tail. Maybe then, the lizard could have scurried off unscathed. And he should have stayed home with his parents. Maybe then, he’d be safe and dry, and he wouldn’t feel like his body was melting off his bones.

Darkness creeps into his sight, blocking out the glowing green rocks. Clark swallows down one last gulp of water and slumps unconscious.

* * *

When he first sees the children in the water, Jonathan doesn’t think anything of it. He’s a bit worried that Clark’s gone in without asking—and they’d have to talk to him about that later—but for now, he could only be relieved that Clark's making friends.

Then, he does a headcount and comes up short.

_Where is his kid?_

Heart stuttering in his chest, he stumbles in his haste towards the water.

“Clark!” He shouts, but it sounds like a whisper as it echoes in his head.

The other kids look up, faces guilty as they step back. Jonathan is furious, but he’s too busy to any attention to them.

There’s a blur the colour of his son’s shirt under the water and the strange glow of meteor rock. There’s something wrong, he can feel it in the air. His hair is raised and his blood is rushing, and all he can do is flounder into the water and grab his kid.

Clark’s unconscious and limp, skin pallid and veins bulging.

He looks dead—or near dead—and Jonathan forgets how to exist for a second.

It’s just him and Clark and _no, no, no, not my boy, please, not Clark_.

Then, Clark groans and curls his tiny hands into fists, and Jonathan’s rushing him back to land.

The other kids swarm like gnats, and Jonathan snaps at them, “Go home! Now!”

They scatter, and Jonathan’s attention is back on his kid.

Clark looks small, too small. He’s curled up in his arms, breathing weakly and gasping with pain.

“Baby? Baby open your eyes,” Jonathan begs, still holding his son.

He can't risk letting him down. The rush of Clark’s breath against his skin is the only thing keeping him present.

Clark’s eyelids flutter, and he’s oh so pale. Jonathan’s never seen him look so weak and sick before.

“There you are,” Jonathan chokes on a laugh, half sobbing as Clark’s too-blue eyes open.

Clark frowns, looking about tiredly. He doesn’t move much—doesn’t seem able to muster the energy.

His gaze lands on Jonathan then, and his frown deepens.

In a very serious voice, he says, “I want to go home, dad.”

Jonathan’s tears finally come, spilling down his cheeks as his son lays shivering in his arms.

“Okay,” he holds Clark closer to him, presses his lips against Clark’s cold forehead, “Home. Yes, let’s go home.”

* * *

Martha's just finished handing the clothes on the line. It’s a painfully domestic thing to do, a chore that she’s taken up since they’ve had to factor in the mud and mess tracked in by a young child.

The sun’s gentle and they’ve got a few hours of sunlight left for the say. It’s hot, wind blowing.

She hears the squeal of children darting across the field, youthful excitement in their voices. She remembers when she’d revel in the sound alone, sure that she’d never have one of those little voices running home to her.

It’s almost nostalgic to think back on it, and she wants so desperately to tell her past self to keep hoping, keep dreaming, keep wishing.

_One day, one of those stars you’re wishing on will fall out of the sky._

The children’s sounds fade away, quickly replaced with a deeper, manic screaming.

“Martha! Martha!”

Jonathan’s racing towards her and bundled in his arms is her baby. Her little miracle star.

Martha drops the skirt she’s hanging, hand pressed over her mouth. She can’t hold back the cry that’s ripped from her throat.

Jonathan’s close enough for her to touch, and Martha gets a good look at the drenched, unconscious form of her child.

Hands shaking, she touches Clark’s skin, tearing her fingers away as she feels how cold he is.

“What happened?” She hisses.

Jonathan’s eyes are wild and watering, and Martha thinks she’s going to be sick.

“How did this happen?” She cries.

“Um, the kids. They were playing. Clark went in the water. And I don’t know. He was just passed out. His skin was bubbling, Martha. I don’t know!”

Clark’s a tough little boy—he had to be, falling from the sky and all. Martha’s never seen him sick before.

And bubbling skin? What even?

“Let’s get him inside, then,” she says, snapping into action.

Jonathan’s coaxed into moving easily, and she guides him into the living room.

The house is hot with the summer air, but they layer Clark with blankets. Jonathan sits on the couch and holds him, and Martha rushes into the kitchen to put some tea on.

“Should we take him to the hospital?” She asks when it's been five minutes and Clark’s still sleeping.

Jonathan’s face is wet with tears, and it’s soaked into his shirt. His face is pressed to the top of Clark’s head and he’s shaking. His constant movement is stark against the still quiet of their son.

“We can't, we can't,” Jonathan whispers. “You know we can't.”

Martha presses her eyes closed, fingers curled tight.

It’s not fair! This is her little boy!

“He’s going to be okay,” Jonathan says, then, “He is. I promise.”

He’s looking at her like a man against a wall; there's nothing left to do but hope.

She nods, quiet, eyes on the two of them.

“He is,” she decides. “You’re right. He’s going to be fine.”

* * *

With all the care and gentleness they can manage, Martha and Jonathan get Clark washed and dried. He doesn’t wake at all, nor show any signs of responsiveness. His chest rises and falls, though. It would have to be enough.

Clark’s got a favourite pair of pjs. It’s got colourful squiggles embroidered on, and he’s growing out of it too quickly for his own likes. Martha guides his limbs into it, eyes misty.

They set him on the couch, piling blankets on top his cold body. Martha’s knees hit the floor before she’s made the decision, and she sits on the floor, watching her baby. Across the length of the couch, Jonathan’s sitting too, face pale and drawn.

Martha takes one of Clark’s little hands, squeezing once in a while. If he can feel it, she wants him to know she hasn’t left him.

Jonathan’s hands rest on Clark’s ankles. He’s silent now, and his tears have dried. He’s just staring stonily at the walls.

The minutes tick by, the old grandfather clock in the corner marking the time. The sun dulls and soon, it’s just the three of them, curled together as the night slips by.

* * *

Clark’s fever crops up in the dark hours of the morning. He wakes, sweaty and stuffy, to find himself swaddled with thick, quilt blankets. There’s a lamp on—the one that flickers soft, yellow light—and Clark sees his parents asleep on the floor before him.

He wiggles out of the blankets, feeling weak and floppy. That effort alone makes his muscles shake with exhaustion, and Clark can't remember ever feeling so tired. It’s like all the energy’s been sucked out of him, and he doesn’t even have enough left to think.

He feels nauseous and itchy, his fingers shaking against the cushions. His eyes slip closed, and he sees the glow of the green meteor rocks, hears the laughter of the other children. He remembers, vividly, the lizard darting away, tail missing and frightened.

His eyes shoot open, and he takes a few arduous breaths.

Pulling a blanket with him, he climbs off the couch and tucks himself against his mom’s side. She’s sleeping, but her arm moves to accommodate him. He wants his dad there too, but he doesn’t dare wake him. Even if he did, he doesn't have the energy.

He cuddles against mom, stomach twisting until he falls back asleep.

* * *

Martha wakes to a sharp knock against her leg. Her eyes shoot open, and she rubs at the aching spot.

It’s then that she sees the brilliant shine of Clark’s eyes. Sees the messy fuzz of his hair.

He’s frantic, struggling to stand. His limbs are clumsy and oh, he must have kicked her in his efforts.

“Ma—” he wails, before tipping over.

He lands, knees knocking hard against the floor, and throws up.

Martha’s too overwhelmed with relief to bother with the mess. She pulls him to her chest, sobbing.

“Clark! You’re okay! Oh, you’re awake, baby,” she’s trembling, holding him tightly.

Jonathan’s at her side suddenly, his strong hands against her shoulders. He’s petting Clark’s hair, his face pressed against Martha’s back.

Clark’s quiet, still shaking, and cold. But he sits in her lap, leaning into their cuddles.

After a moment, he shifts, face pinching.

“I feel sick,” Clark says, voice tiny.

Jonathan reaches out, sweeping him up, running him upstairs, and settling him into his bed. Martha takes over then, pushing his damp, sweaty hair out of his face and sticking a bucket on his lap. Jonathan pulls up a chair and leads her into it, disappearing once she’s sat.

Clark’s eyes are tired, and his skin still looks ashen and grey.

Martha reaches to squeeze his toes, smiling when his eyes fall shut with the comfort.

Jonathan returns eventually, hands smelling like cleaning detergent.

He pulls another chair up, murmuring, “Hey, buddy,” to Clark.

Clark smiles, too tired to open his eyes.

Martha’s heart feels bruised, the way it’s been wrung constantly these past hours. But Clark’s getting better—he is.

She locks eyes with her husband, matching his blatant relief with a watery smile.

* * *

Clark’s sick again, throwing up maybe five or six times. It’s mostly lake water—and Jonathan’s absurdly amazed at just how much he’d managed to swallow—and little flecks of the meteor rocks.

Once his stomach is empty, and the bucket’s been cleared away, Clark’s health returns rapidly. His strength returns in what seems like minutes, and his smile’s back. His eyes, bright and blue, are alert and he’s talking again.

Jonathan wonders if they should investigate this more—children don’t recover from illness in such a strange way, with the lowest of lows, and then a sudden return to normalcy—but he doesn’t have the time. He's too busy fussing over his son.

Martha wants to question, too, but she’s too hesitant to think back on it. She’d thought that Clark was gone, then. That he’d fade away. But he hadn’t— _he hadn’t!_ And she didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

When Clark’s stomach is settled enough, they feed him ginger ale and crackers. He’s delighted, of course, saying _thank you_ and _really?_

At one point, Clark bats his eyes at Martha coyly and asks, “Can I have some more soda, please?”

The laugh that bubbles out of her is nigh-hysterical, and Jonathan blinks a few times to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Martha says, voice sweet and singing.

Clark can’t tamp down his glee, and Jonathan thinks he’s approaching a sugar high. But he can’t find it in himself to worry.

There’s Clark, and the colour in his cheeks, and the sparkle in his eyes, and Jonathan’s so, so relieved that he doesn’t have room in himself for anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos, comment, bookmark!


End file.
